


Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [22]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set about a year after <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/286199.html">What Doesn’t Bend, Breaks</a>. It’s 1997 and Neal’s back from his undercover assignment, working a new case.  Peter’s out of town when a potential tragedy happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Discussion of death, HIV/AIDS, Implied Request for Assisted Suicide, Euthenasia.
> 
> And while there’s a cliffhanger here, remember, this is the Wonder(ful) Years, and we already know Peter and Neal’s future. Written for for my recent [Prompt Me meme](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/347481.html), her prompt was "Dirty Needle Scare".

**June, 1997 – FBI Field Office - Manhattan, White Collar Division, Conference Room**

“Ouch.” There was something in the mess of shredded paper. “Ouch – ouch – ouch.” Whatever had jabbed him was still jabbing him. Neal pulled his hand out of the basket and the stabbing pain was quickly taken over by cold, sick dread. Sticking out of the palm of his hand was a used syringe.

Earlier that day, Neal, Amy Grainger, Jack Franklin and a handful of agents served search warrants on the offices of Berenson and Smith, the front for an alleged boiler room operation. The staff had been in the process of shredding piles of documents, and the FBI sized the contents of the shredders. It wasn’t unheard of to hide intact data in the bags of sliced up paper.

But it seemed that something other than account ledgers had been hidden in the trash.

“Neal…” Grainger sat him down while Jack ran for the office first aid kit. Someone must have gone and fetched Hughes, because he came into the conference room on Franklin’s heels.

He couldn’t stop staring at his hand with the needle hanging from it. Was it planted there deliberately or had someone tossed it in the shredder bin thinking it was a safe place to dispose of it?

Amy’s hands were on his shoulders, holding him still, while Jack pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Neal felt like he was shaking apart, but his hand, resting palm up on the conference table, was surprisingly steady. 

Jack pulled the syringe out of his hand and someone had the foresight to get an evidence bag to hold the needle. Hughes, now also wearing gloves, swabbed his skin with an alcohol pad and put a bandage over the almost infinitesimally small wound. There wasn’t even any blood.

“You need to get tested.”

Neal nodded his agreement. His mouth parched, he couldn’t speak.

“I’ll take you. Come on.” Hughes pulled off his gloves and helped Neal to his feel. 

He took a deep breath, his panic was overblown. This was just a needle – maybe someone at Berenson and Smith was a diabetic. No reason to assume that this was from someone who had AIDS or hepatitis or another deadly communicable disease. No reason at all.

Still, the old man was right. He needed to get tested.

“You’ll be fine, Neal.” Hughes wrapped an avuncular arm around him and led him down the stairs. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him; their concern a palpable thing.

Last year, after Peter had been shot, after he came back from his stint in deep cover, they made a decision to stop pretending. There was no grand announcement, just a series of subtle behavioral changes. They arrived together, had lunch together when possible, and left together. It was obvious to everyone that they were friends, and if people thought they were more than friends, neither man was bothered by the assumption.

They didn’t out themselves, but somehow, people sort of began to just know. There was none of the overt hostility that they both expected. Peter had figured that he was being given a pass because of his recent, life-threatening injury and Neal was just coming off of a highly successful undercover operation. What they weren’t expecting was the wholesale acceptance by their colleagues. 

Neal gave up trying to understand it. After years of being treated like the office pariah, this ready acceptance was just unnerving. 

Now, their eyes were full of sympathy, maybe a touch of pity, even. He nodded and put on a smile, hoping he looked brave, rather than just a panicked wreck.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was exhausted. Three full days of being pushed to his limits does that to a man. But the higher-ups wanted proof that he was ready to return to active duty. That meant hours of testing, both physical and mental. He needed sign-offs from the FBI shrinks, the doctors, the range instructors. It was like being back in training, from running down “perps” in Hogan’s Alley, scaling the rope wall on the Yellow Brick Road, turning in near-perfect marksmanship scores, to answering the shrinks’ endlessly probing questions about his mental state.

But finally, everyone who needed to had checked the box that said Peter Burke was fit for active duty. He gathered his bags, got a ride back to DC (there was always a trainee willing to ferry an experienced agent around, if just for the chance to get some inside info), and hopped on the first train back to New York.

Three hours later, he was letting himself into the Upper West Side apartment he shared with Neal. Even now, almost five years after they gave up that dump (and he finally could admit it really was a dump) in Long Island City, coming home sometimes still took his breath away. It wasn’t the beauty of the space, or even the vastness of it that made his heart beat a little faster. It was the feeling of utter safety, that within these walls, no one could hurt them.

 _No one except themselves._

Peter still hadn’t forgotten his own terrible behavior just before Neal went undercover, or quite forgiven himself either. Five agonizing months apart and then nearly dying had a way of putting things into perspective.

He missed Neal. This was the first time they’d been apart since he was released from the hospital. The nights were lonely and long, and even though he was bone-tired, he couldn’t sleep. The narrow bed felt wrong without Neal next to him. They tried to talk, but there was no cell phone reception in the dormitory, and while he could hear Neal’s voice, he couldn’t understand was he was saying.

The cell phone wasn’t completely useless though. He called home and left a message on the answering machine, telling Neal when his train would be in.

At eight-thirty, the apartment, with its western exposure, was bathed in the last of the late day sun. The living room was all gold and shadows and it felt good to be home. Except that the apartment seemed to be empty. Neal wasn’t in the kitchen; he wasn’t in the living room or the library. Maybe he was upstairs, in the bedroom, waiting for him.

Energized by the thought, Peter took the stairs two at a time, only to be disappointed. The bedroom was empty, the bed made, nothing out of place. Neal should be here. Albert, the doorman, said he came home about an hour before, but didn’t bother to pick up the mail.

Peter dropped his bags and went over to the phone, the message light was flashing and he pressed the Play button, only to hear his own voice. _Where the hell was Neal?_

Maybe Neal went out for something and Albert didn’t see him leave. Peter stripped, thought about a shower and ended up just putting on a pair of shorts and a clean t-shirt. He was hungry and disappointed and worried. It wasn’t like Neal to just leave – he knew he’d be home tonight.

Peter shoved his feet into a pair of docksiders and was about to go back downstairs when he noticed that the door to the fourth bedroom was ajar. It was the smallest of the four – little more than a closet with a closet and a tiny window facing the courtyard. They never used it or offered it up to guests. It was mostly for storage – stuff they couldn’t bear to part with but didn’t need on a daily basis. A narrow beam of light was visible now.

He pushed the door all the way open, calling out “Neal?” There were so many boxes in the small space it was hard to see if anyone was there. There was a rustling, but no answer. “Neal, are you in here?” Something was terribly wrong. “Please, Neal, answer me.”

Finally, an answer. “I’m here.”

Peter maneuvered around some cartons and storage containers and there Neal was. Still in his suit, sitting on the small bed, an old photo album opened on his lap. For all that he was still perfectly groomed, he looked wrecked. 

“What’s the matter?” Peter sat down next to him and touched his face. Neal flinched and pulled away. “Neal?”

“You shouldn’t touch me.”

“What’s going on?”

Neal just looked at him, his expression bleak. He opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head and opened his mouth again. But he didn’t speak. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper – a small business card.

Peter took it from Neal’s shaking hand. _West Side Clinic – Confidential Test Results_. There was a number handwritten on the card and instructions to call in five days. He knew exactly what this was, but he couldn’t understand why. “Neal?”

“We served warrants on Berenson and Smith today. I was going through a bag of shredded paper. There was a dirty syringe in there and I was stuck.” Neal’s voice was thin, almost hysterical. He lifted his right hand, there was a small bandage on the heel of his palm. “It went in deep.”

Peter put his arm around him, but Neal kept pulling away. “Don’t touch me - you’ll get infected.”

“Neal - you know it doesn’t work like that. You can’t get AIDS by skin-to-skin contact.”

“You can get hepatitis like that, though.” There was a hysterical note in Neal’s voice.

“No you can’t, and besides, it’s been what, less thant twelve hours?” Peter used the power of his longer reach to trap Neal and pull him into his arms. “Shh, stop struggling. We’re partners, right? I’m not letting you suffer through this alone.”

Peter had known Neal for almost his entire life, had seen him through some very bad times, but he’d never seen him break down so completely. His sobs were harsh, terrifying, his body shook like it was about to come apart, and Peter just held on. 

He knew this fear, he understood it. They might be perfectly monogamous and even so, never had unprotected sex, but they had friends in the life. Friends who’d died of the plague and died badly.

He held onto Neal, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back, stroking him, trying to comfort him, all the while knowing that there really could be no comfort. 

Neal finally stopped crying, stopped shaking, but he kept his head on Peter’s shoulder. Peter cupped his hand around the base of Neal’s skull, threading his fingers through the damp, sweaty locks. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Neal took a deep, shuddering breath. “If I test positive …”

“I’m not going anywhere. You know that.” He tightened his grip on Neal, as if he could keep the future at bay by force of will, alone.

“If I test positive,” Neal repeated. “Promise me something.”

Peter replied immediately. “Anything.” And immediately regretted it.

“Don’t let me suffer. Don’t make me hang on in the hopes that there’s some miracle cure.”

There was no such thing as miracles, but there was science and Peter knew that breakthroughs were always possible.

Neal lifted his head; his eyes were an ocean of blue, his lashes clumped into spikes. “When the time comes, you’ll take me to that place in Maine, by the lake. You remember? You’ll let me go.”

Peter did. They had rented a cabin right after Neal took the bar exams and right before he started at Quantico and spent an idyllic two weeks doing nothing more strenuous than swimming and fucking. “Don’t - don’t talk like your life is over. Please.”

Neal took his hand, his grip bruising. “You promised me, Peter. You won’t let me suffer. Not like that. If you can’t do it, just make sure I’m strong enough to hold my gun.”

_FIN_  



End file.
